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Avery Grace
Fall 2020

“Images of resilience”1: Storytelling as a Radical Act

Introduction

At the core of everything we have learned this semester, especially at the heart of every

book, is the belief that stories have something to teach us. Storytelling and oral history are

millennia-old practices. In more recent history, academic spheres have taken an interest in these

mediums, changing the way storytelling functions. In Appalachia, a region deeply grounded in

place and a collective history of capitalist and state oppression, storytelling plays an essential

role. Storytelling ties people to place, defines moral values, connects people to their identity,

their collective and individual histories, and generally serves as a grounding and positive force.

When outsiders co-opt storytelling for their benefit, these positive elements are lost, and the

experience instead burdens the insider/“subject,” privileges the outsiders, and facilitates

performative allyship. The aspects of storytelling present within the community can be used as a

blueprint for reciprocal and ethical research and learning by outsiders.

Storytelling Within Community

Oral history and storytelling have long roots in Appalachia that stem from pre-

colonization and the Indigenous people who were murdered and forced off the region’s land.

These practices continue today and help ground and connect Appalachians with their identity and

sense of self, teach lessons and moral values, provide an avenue through which to process

trauma, and facilitate resistance. These elements are evident across works of Appalachian

literature.

1 Shoog McDaniel, Electric Dirt. p. 168.

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Storytelling connects folks to their identity by joining the self to the collective through

family history. Sound by Marilou Awiakta provides a clear example of how this grounding

functions. Her work traces her relationship with her regional and racial identity through the

sounds of place. She writes,

On my birthday–January 24–my mother, Wilma, always sings me a song and tells

me the story, “I Remember the Night You Were Born.” Same song. Same story.
For decades now via telephone. At sent intervals, I put in my two cents
(sometimes four cents), which vary, depending on how I feel at the time. If I’ve
gotten off-center during the year, the sound of the story restores my balance. (43)

Here she demonstrates how the stories we tell create and recreate who we are. It’s repetition,

tone, content “restores her balance” (Awiakta, 43). This story of her birth is grounded in place.

Her birth story centers on her mother’s hometown in East Tennessee and the geographic

landscape of mountains during a snowstorm, all these factors are central features.

In addition to grounding to the self, landscape, and family, stories connect Appalachians

to their collective history and pass on community values. Awiakta writes,

I was born and brought up in the centuries-old Appalachian mountain tradition of

listening and sounding (translating). ‘Listening’ means using all the senses to
commune with the cycle of sound: from audibles, to waves of energy that precede
them, to the ultimate silent song–the spirit or energy–at the core. As they have
done for generations of other people, the mountains themselves taught me to ‘lift
up my eyes’ and listen. From elders who translated what they heard into words,
spoken or sung, I slowly and naturally absorbed what literature calls ‘the oral
tradition.’ / Mountain speech carries the sound of the land where it’s spoken. (43)

Awiakta demonstrates what stories can teach and how storytelling is intrinsically connected to

the land and past generations. It is grounded in place, in “the land where it’s spoken” (Awiakta,

43). Listening itself is one of the central values taught through storytelling and facilitates the

continuation of the oral tradition for future generations. This connectedness to self, land,

community, and shared history, is a beautiful and central part of storytelling by and for the

community.
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Storytelling can be a mode with which to teach lessons and uphold community values. In

addition to the value of listening, storytelling can teach moral values that include anti-capitalist

and pro-union messages, something especially powerful and poignant in the heart of

Appalachian coal country. Storming Heaven, by Denise Giardina, provides an example of how

this functions. At the homeplace, when Rondal Loyd visits, one of the children asks, “‘You got

any stories to tell?’ Jane asked. ‘Lots of strangers that come through tell us stories’” (238). Jane

displays the prevalence of stories and the role in their upbringing and how coveted they are. The

model of storytelling facilitates communication and community building with the people who

visit their home. In Rondal’s story of “boogermen” he defines organizing and criticizes coal

company executives. He defines “organizer” for the children saying, “That’s somebody that gits

other folks doing things together. Like when you and your buddies go outside and one says,

‘Let’s go pick berries’ and figures out where to git the berries and how many buckets to take.

That there is an organizer” (238). About “rascals”–coal company execs–he says, “They are just

plain mean and they want folks to be all spread out sos they can just pick them off, one by one”

(238). The format of storytelling allows for complex ideas to be simplified and applied to

contexts with which the audience is familiar. In this case, applying big ideas about organizing

and why it’s important to everyday life on the farm and the children’s imaginary world of

“boogermen.” Here, foundational understandings are established, and morals are solidified that

will inform the children’s future actions. The way storytelling functions to strengthen values and

build community is powerful.

Storytelling can assist in naming, owning, and processing trauma. In Strange As This

Weather Has Been by Ann Pancake, Avery’s description of his mother’s storytelling about the

Buffalo creek demonstrates how this functions. Pancake writes,

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He senses his mother about to give in. It is mostly the stories makes him think it.
Of course, for three or four years after Buffalo Creek, she told the stories because
she had to tell them. He understands that now, how her stories put shape and
control and a kind of finality on a thing that was obscenely shapeless and
uncontrollable and forever unfinished. (212)

The process of storytelling is incredibly powerful, as demonstrated in this final line. In the

context of Appalachia, where state-sanctioned environmental devastation and violence are the

norms, especially in mining communities, the ability to name your experiences and the

experiences of your community through storytelling makes it a radical act. This act makes space

for healing. One way this healing is possible the way that processing through storytelling can

help place/displace blame. Stories require an understanding of the beginning, middle, and end.

The process of telling them reveals the actual causes of an event, assisting in diffusing any self-

directed blame one may feel. In the case of Buffalo Creek, the real responsibility lies in the coal

companies and their mismanaged slurry impoundments. What happened to Avery was not Ms.

Johnson’s fault for letting him go to a sleepover; it is the company’s fault. Determining the order

of events highlights root causes such as these. It also allows for the construction of an ending,

giving some closure and reclaiming agency. The way storytelling facilitates healing from trauma

makes it a radical and powerful act.

These elements come together so that storytelling is not just a radical act, but one that

facilitates resistance. Lace in Strange As This Weather Has Been by Ann Pancake, exemplifies

how the way storytelling grounds people in place, collective history, shared values, and

processing trauma, make it a strong foundation for activism. For Lace, her activist work is

housed at Dairy Queen. She began her involvement by listening to Loretta and Charlie tell stories

about the coal companies and their actions. Eventually, she becomes a storyteller too. Pancake

writes, “By then, I wasn’t any longer just listening at Dairy Queen. I was talking. I spread the
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word whenever I could” (300). A pivotal moment for her is visiting the former coal town of Tout

with Charlie and hearing his story of destruction and displacement by the company (307). Stories

are the foundation of her activism. Further, coal companies recognize the power of stories. They

have a long history of suppressing the voices of people telling the truth and speaking against

them, because they know that it is powerful. Lace has a gun pulled on her because of her

activism (Pancake, 305), demonstrating that her storytelling is so powerful that it is seen as a

threat. It is hard to oppose or resist an unseeable, uncontrollable, forever changing force.

Storytelling and all the ways it functions, make this force tangible, facilitating resistance.

Storytelling & Outsiders

When storytelling is for the benefit of an outsider rather than for one’s community, it

shifts from an empowering force of good to an oppressive force. When outsiders interview and

use storytelling as a form of research, power and agency are transferred from the

insider/Appalachian to the outsider. Avery’s interactions with Dr. Livey, a professor and

researcher at his university in Strange as the Weather Has Been by Ann Pancake, and Jillian’s

interrogation of Dean for her documentary in Saving by Carter Sickels, demonstrate how this

shift of power happens and its repercussions. The negative consequences felt by Appalachian

research subjects are rarely captured, as the person causing harm is typically also controlling the

narrative. Both Avery and Dean provide windows into what is usually invisible to outsiders but

familiar to Appalachians.

While storytelling within the community is a tool for processing trauma, it can instead be

retraumatizing when guided by outsiders. Avery describes the consequences of recounting his

experiences at Buffalo Creek, saying, “He reflects on it now...he decides he understood as early
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as Boney’s that he’d made a tremendous mistake...it made him start thinking about it in the

daytime” (Pancake, 221). Buffalo Creek was an immensely traumatizing event in his life. It

caused him to have nightmares for years. He reflects on these nightmares and his community,

“Instead they live in the constant horror that one day they will recall, one night they will dream.

But Avery dreams this: ‘Bucky, grab hold my arm!’ And he can’t, not to save his mind or his

soul, know if Tad really screamed, or if the scream is dream, too” (Pancake, 243). These

confusing and upsetting nightmares are now present in his daytime existence, there is no rest

from this fear. The first time he told his story in full was to Dr. Livey. His interview caused him

to begin recalling the event during the day as well as at night, causing additional trauma. Dr.

Livey is not aware of this consequence. As a result, he will not consider it when reporting on

Avery’s experiences or conducting research in the future, furthering this damaging cycle.

Jillian’s interviews with Dean also explicitly centers his trauma. In one scene, when

driving together to visit Dean’s sick grandmother, Jillian asks, “Do you miss your parents?”

(Sickels, 215); both of his parents have passed, his mom after a long battle with cancer. This

question is abrupt, direct, and focuses explicitly on what Jillian knew is painful for Dean. He

responds, saying, “I try not to think about them” (Sickels, 215). Sickels does not include Dean’s

internal narrative at this moment. However, his short response makes evident his discomfort and

suggests that discussing his parents is painful. Jillian also asks,

Did he hit you, too?...Earlier, when I admitted that my father sometimes hit my
mom, Jillian’s face cracked with interest, and I quickly backpedaled, downplaying
it. She wanted to know why I’d hid something that big from her. ‘I wasn’t hiding
anything, I just don’t like to talk about it,’ I said. (Sickels, 215)
Once again, she asks a direct and abrupt question about Dean’s trauma. She does not ask for his

consent to discuss these topics but rather dives right into what is likely to upset him. Dean’s

response demonstrates his discomfort as he once again says that he avoids the subject. He
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backpedals, showing that he regrets what he initially told her. Further, after asking these

questions, she does not provide support or offer him an out as she continues to ask similar

questions.

Physical differences mark the power imbalances between the insider and outsider in the

context of research, placing an unseen burden on the subject. In Avery’s interview with Dr.

Livey, he is keenly aware of the physical differences between them, implicating the different

positions of power they both hold. Pancake writes,

...his fear of being alone in a room with a man so different from anyone he’d ever
met before coming to Marshall. That worried him. Dr. Livey was not a West
Virginia name, and he definitely didn’t have a West Virginia voice. He didn’t
look local, either, and not just his clothes, but the long nose with its rounded
lobes, the coarse longish black hair, the dark droopy mustache, and dark droopy
eyes. In the weeks before he recorded his story, very mostly worried about what
he would say in the office with this Dr. Livey before the tape recorder started”
(220).
Here, Dr. Livey’s facial features, hair color, facial hair, clothes, accent, and surname all place

him as an outsider, despite living and teaching in West Virginia.

The fear Avery reports and the extent to which he worries about sharing a space with him

and telling his story reveal the power imbalance between them. This power difference stems not

only from Dr. Livey’s role as a professor and his education level but his outsider status. One way

this difference is made visible is in the manner he refers to Dr. Livey. He is always referred to as

Doctor, consistently citing his education level. His first name is never revealed, suggesting that

though he tried to create an environment of camaraderie with Avery, they never were on even

ground.

Sickels makes similar physical distinctions between Dean and Jillian, marking her as an

outsider and revealing their power imbalance. Sickels writes,

Jillian strides across the overgrown lawn, marveling at the trees, commenting on
the loud cacophony of crickets and spring peepers, carrying herself like she’s
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never wanted to be in another body. Her skirt rides up, revealing long muscular
legs. Her hair is thick and red. She looks beautiful, and out of place. (Sickels, 210)

Jillian’s physical features mark her as “out of place” (Sickels, 210). Her hair, musculature, and

clothing mark her as different. Further, her relationship with these features has an additional

impact. The line “...carrying herself like she’s never wanted to be in another body” (Sickels, 210)

reveals the power imbalance between Dean, a trans man, and Jillian, a cis woman. This short line

captures both Jillian’s privilege and the fact that it is invisible to her. Dean who does not have

the same privilege is the only one who notices. Like with Avery and the Professor, there is also

an age gap. Jillian is 40 years old, six years older than Dean. The way Jillian’s gender, age, and

class privilege superimpose her outsider status compound to create a power imbalance similar to

that between Avery and Dr. Livey’s.

The physical discomfort of both subjects further demonstrates the power imbalance

between insiders and outsiders. During Avery’s interview, Pancake writes, “Dr. Livey scooted in

closer and closer, as though the sharing of the story created a familiarity between them when

Avery felt exactly the opposite. And he tried not to look at Dr. Livey” (220). Here, Avery’s

visceral discomfort is visible. He is physically uncomfortable. Dr. Livey, on the other hand,

interprets the same thing that is making Avery uncomfortable as a moment of connection,

revealing his lack of awareness of his subject and their underlying differences which contribute

to this misunderstanding.

The insider/outsider dynamic places a need to perform on the subject. For Avery, his

accent is a marker of difference that he works to hide. Pancake writes,

After a year and a half in college, he was acutely conscious of his accent and how
it would replay through the machine, but he hadn’t yet learned how to tame it. He
went on, speaking as close to how he imagined a research subject should
sound...Avery concentrated so hard on his accent. (220)
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He is not only focused on what he is saying but the way he says it. This additional focus reveals

the need to perform as an “outsider” as much as possible. This burden is not visible to the actual

outsider, and it’s likely that they expect and want the opposite–a performance of “Appalachian.”

However, this unseen burden of performance strengthens the power imbalance already present,

making participating a more negative and laborious experience for the insider.

Allyship is performed but not enacted by outsiders, doing nothing to benefit the insider

while assuring themselves that they are doing something “good.” The end of Avery’s interview

demonstrates how this plays out:

When he got done, he looked up at Dr. Livey, waiting for him to pay him so he
could get out. But Dr. Livey was in no hurry. First he praised Avery for how well
he told that story then he puffed up with righteous anger–this didn’t surprise
Avery, he’d seen it in class before–and he paced around and lectured Avery a
little about how Avery and all the rest of them had been exploited and abused, the
companies, capitalism, and Avery nodded obediently, the urgency of this need to
escape crushing any attention he could give this speech. (Pancake, 221)

This “righteous anger” does not serve insiders. Instead, it makes them uncomfortable, as seen in

Avery’s description of his intense need to “escape” (221). Appalachians do not need their

oppression explained to them by someone who does not share those experiences. The only

person who has anything to gain is the outsider who gets to feel like they are doing something

important without thinking critically about their positionality.

Lastly, when storytelling happens within this insider/outsider dynamic, it is the outsiders

who benefit. Following the examples of Avery and Dean, Dr. Livey benefits by gaining a

research subject and more material to work with–something he clearly desires because he begged

to interview Avery (Pancake, 218). He gets Avery’s story, and Avery, in return, is re-

traumatized. At the end of their interview, Pancake writes, “He never asked for a copy of the

tape. After that semester, he avoided Dr. Livey altogether. Avery never heard the tape, so he isn’t
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sure what all he told on it, but he does know what he didn’t tell because his mother was also right

about how nobody would ever forget” (221). This is a disparate exchange. Between Dean and

Jillian, this dynamic is even more explicit. Jillian leaves their trip with all she needs to make a

new documentary film, furthering her career and feeding her artistic passions. She has gotten the

fact of her cheating off her chest and is prepared to move on. Dean, on the other hand, leaves

heartbroken. He has been cheated on, his longtime girlfriend–who was a big part in his journey

to self-acceptance–has left him, all of his trauma has been laid out to bare, his grandmother who

raised him continues to decline as he leaves her behind, and he is left to sell his childhood home

to a coal company who does not care about him. In both cases, the outsider benefits, and the

insider is left in a worse position than before.

Conclusion

Storytelling by and for the community is powerful. It grounds people in their identity,

their collective history, teaches community values, and fosters resistance. When facilitated by

outsiders, storytelling benefits the outsider while negatively affecting the insider in the moment

and long term. Stories are a powerful tool for facilitating empathy and learning about oneself,

community, and others. For stories to serve this last function, storytelling must occur in a setting

and format that maintains the benefits and power it had when done within a community. The

model that best serves both of these goals includes storytelling by and for the community that

allows outsiders access to learn but does not center them.

Queer Appalachia can serve as a model for this idea. Their zine, Electric Dirt, was made

up of contributions from Appalachians throughout the region by themselves for a community of

other queer Appalachians. Its publication allowed outsiders to interact with a work that was by
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and for the Appalachian community and does not center them, exposing non-Appalachian

readers to the unfiltered lives of those in the region, rather than a curated view made by and for

outsiders. There is much more to gain from these honest depictions. Shoog McDaniel in Electric

Dirt makes explicit what the goal for all researchers/storytellers in Appalachia should be. He

writes, “I work hard to bring awareness to social injustices here, while simultaneously bringing

joy through images of resilience” (168).

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Works Cited

Awiakta, Marilou. "Sound." Bloodroot: Reflections on place by Appalachian women writers.

Lexington: University Press of Kentucky (1998).

Giardina, Denise. Storming heaven: A novel. WW Norton & Company, 2010.

Pancake, Ann. Strange as This Weather Has Been: A Novel. Counterpoint Press, 2007.

Sickels, Carter. "Saving." The Collection: Short Fiction from the Transgender Vanguard

(2012): 21-51.

Mamone, Gina. Phillips, Kayleigh. McDaniels, Shoog. Skaggs, Misty., editors. Queer

Appalachia (2017) Electric Dirt: A Celebration of Queer Voices and Identities from

Appalachia and the South, 1(1), 60-61.